


blood on your knuckles and between your ears

by bearfeathers



Category: Rejseholdet | Unit One
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9381395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: Fischer seems to have a bad habit of getting hit in the head. When his latest adventure requires a stay in the hospital, La Cour volunteers to stay with him. (Post-S02E02)





	

**Author's Note:**

> *banging pots and pans together* i can't get enough of these two and i'm gonna write a ton of shit whether it gets read or not idgaf there needs to be more than like twenty fics here oH MY GOD SOMEONE HELP

Of course, Ingrid thinks to herself, it would be too much to ask for their arrest—and the subsequent confession that followed—to be the end of it. No, it seems their resident ‘problem child’ is doing what he does best: causing a problem. After the spot of trouble they’d gotten into in their efforts to arrest Martin Steensgaard, La Cour and Fischer were shipped off to the hospital to be checked out. This was all well and good right up until the point that the doctor had decided that Fischer should be kept overnight for observation, which was met with vehement protest. With a deep sigh, Ingrid rounds the corner to the room that Gaby had informed her they’d be waiting in.

It's clear she’s walking in on an argument, one that consists of Fischer versus anyone remotely near him. She catches sight of La Cour seated in the corner of the room, silent and patient, evidence of the day’s fight left in ugly bruising beneath his eyes and scattered bits of plaster.

“You’re not having La Cour stay for observation,” Fischer notes with undisguised annoyance as he begins tugging his jacket on.

“That’s because Inspector La Cour doesn’t have a Grade 2 concussion,” the doctor answers mildly.

“You have a __Grade 2 concussion__?” Ingrid echoes, standing in the doorway with her hands planted on her hips.

The occupants of the room all turn to meet her gaze at the sudden statement, including Fischer, who finds that sudden movement does not particularly agree with him at the moment.

“Which in itself would be one thing,” the doctor informs her, flipping a few pages of the chart in his hands. “But considering this additional head injury last November which has been noted in his record, I think it’s best that he be kept under the watch of a medical professional for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Last November?” IP muses, face scrunched in a frown. “Exactly what was it that happened last November?”

“He had a beer bottle smashed over his head by an angry biker looking to earn his colors,” Gaby supplies dryly.

IP raises his eyebrows at this. Gaby shrugs.

“When we were called in to assist in Horsens,” she elaborates. “Johnny told me.”

Fischer shoots the ex-football star a watered-down glare, to which Johnny can only grin sheepishly. It’s not that he had intended to rat the other man out, but he didn’t feel right keeping the incident a complete secret. Ingrid, on the other hand, has to remind herself that if she keeps grating her teeth like this she’s going to rack up quite the dentist bill. Fischer is a brilliant inspector, but sometimes the headache that comes along with him makes her lose sight of that fact.

It’s not surprising to her that Fischer had chosen to hide this incident; she’s knows for a fact that she doesn’t know half of what the man gets up to when she’s not looking. But seeing him treat these incidents with such an aloof attitude claws at a wound she’d rather not have to think about just now. Yet she can hardly help it. She can’t stop herself from drawing a parallel to Soren. The idea that the same could happen to Fischer makes her nauseous. She knows she’s likely overreacting, but even the slightest possibility of something similar happening is too great a risk to take. Willing her temples to stop throbbing, she folds her arms over her chest and pins Fischer with a disapproving stare.

“Why is it that we’re only learning about this now?” she wants to know.

“It wasn’t pertinent to the investigation,” Fischer grumbles, rising from the hospital bed.

This turns out to be the next step in what has been a series of very bad decisions. The dark-haired inspector sways on his feet, his face gone white as a sheet, and only remains upright through La Cour’s sudden intervention. The taller man had remained still and silent until now, but at the first hint of trouble had shot out of his seat and now stands gripping Fischer firmly by the arm.

“Fischer,” he intones warningly.

“I’m fine,” Fischer insists, making a weak attempt at removing himself from the other man’s grasp before resigning himself to his fate.

“You’re staying for observation,” Ingrid says, in a tone that would brook no argument. “This isn’t up for discussion.”

“If it’s a matter of being babysat, I can do that just as well at home as I can here,” Fischer argues.

“Didn’t you say Mille had gone on holiday with her sister?” La Cour intones. The mutinous glare he receives is met with a look of feigned innocence. “In any case, I believe the doctor here suggested you be kept under professional observation.”

The doctor hums in agreement. “Considering the loss of consciousness, the persisting pain and an apparent history of head trauma, I believe it’s best that we rule out any potential further complications before you be allowed to be on your own.”  

Ingrid raises her hands, making it clear that the matter was being decided right here and now.

“Fischer, you’re to remain here for twenty-four hours under the doctor’s observation. So long as he gives you a clean bill of health, you can be on your way tomorrow,” she declares. “One day won’t hurt.”

Fischer looks ready and raring to deliver a scathing retort, but holds off as La Cour leans in to tell him something. It’s spoken too quietly for the rest of them to hear, his face turned away from them, but whatever it is he says must be something powerful, because all the fight drains out of Fischer in an instant, leaving him looking tired and somber. It’s clear he’s still not happy about the fact, but he’s not going to argue any further.

“Fine. Yeah, okay,” he mumbles.

“And I’ll stay with him as well,” La Cour adds. “We can drive back together tomorrow.”

Ingrid sighs in relief, giving La Cour an appreciative pat on the arm. “Thank you, La Cour. And Fischer? Behave.”

Fischer snorts at that, lowering himself back onto the bed. He can argue he’s fine all he wants, but considering his monosyllabic responses as IP and Gaby speak to him and the way he’s now holding his head in his hands, it’s a poor argument at best. Ingrid takes the time to pull La Cour aside for a private chat of her own.

“What exactly did you say to him?” she has to know.

La Cour glances over his shoulder back at the remainder of their team before returning his gaze to her. He shrugs. “I had run after Steensgaard after he’d assaulted Fischer, thinking I would stop him. In the end, Fischer had to come to my aid instead. So I told him if something happened to him now because he refused to stay, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

Ingrid clucks her tongue. Perhaps La Cour feels guilty, but he really has no reason to. “Well. In any case, it worked. And you?”

La Cour blinks, humming questioningly and cocking his head to the side, awaiting an explanation.

“I mean you,” Ingrid says, gesturing to her own face as an example. “You’re alright?”

“Oh,” La Cour says, his face lighting up with understanding. “Yes, I’m alright. A broken nose, but thankfully the break itself wasn’t too bad. And the doctor says I have some lovely bruising to look forward to.”

Ingrid chuckles at that, shaking her head. “Alright then. I suppose the rest of us will be going. You’ll call if he’s too much of a handful?”

“Of course,” La Cour agrees.

* * *

 An hour later finds Fischer and La Cour in a hospital room alone, the lights dimmed and the door closed. They’ve sat in silence for the past half hour, both of them more worn out by the day’s events than they’d let on and glad to have finally caught a moment of peace.

“So what was it you told Ingrid?” Fischer pipes up.

La Cour looks up, chin resting in his hand as he leans against the armrest of his chair. “That I was embarrassed you’d had to rescue me and that you took pity on me when I said I’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you because of this.”

Fischer huffs a laugh. “And she bought it?”

“I can be very convincing,” La Cour declares.

Neither of them would ever say it had been for her sake. When La Cour had leaned in for a word, it had been to remind Fischer of what had happened with Soren. Fischer could be aloof at times, and cruel when he wanted to be, but he wasn’t about to put Ingrid through that pain again. With how hard she had taken Soren’s death, a night’s stay in the hospital would be worth it to avoid causing her any undue grief.

But as silence once more descends on them, La Cour can’t help but get the feeling that Fischer knows it hadn’t entirely been a lie. So often it’s Fischer that handles the rougher physical aspects of their job that, for once, La Cour thought he might be the one to do it. This is without even mentioning that tight, twisting sensation he’d felt in his gut as he’d spied Fischer lying motionless beneath the windowsill, magazines and books fallen down to cover him. The blood pounding in his ears had had less to do with running after the assailant and more to do with the way the sight of Fischer’s crumpled form made his vision go red and filled his mind with awful, violent things.

And as he’d desperately clawed at the arm choking off his oxygen supply, he’d thought of Fischer. He’d wondered if Steensgaard would simply leave him there or if he’d return to finish the job. He felt regret. As a team, they always sought to have each other’s backs and in that instant, he’d failed miserably. Fischer had taken care of Steensgaard himself and even took the time to make sure La Cour was alright, as though he hadn’t just taken a blow to the back of the head himself.

The whole affair gnawed at something in him, something buried deep down－deeper down than he ever truly cared to look. La Cour, in his childhood, had often been described as an ‘odd boy.’ Odd boys rarely grow into anything but odd men and yet despite that, he’d always found a sort of peace in it. He was fine with acquaintances and those co-workers who are really only friends so long as you’re both on the clock. Being alone had never really been something he’d seen as a problem. But Fischer was… well. He really was his friend, wasn’t he?

When he looks back at the time since they’d first met, he knows this to be true. Fischer is always the first person－and sometimes the __only__  person－he goes to when he has news; good or bad. When he needs to talk, it’s Fischer he always seeks out. Without ever realizing it, he’d become drawn to the other man in a way that he couldn’t quite put words to. It was something that both excited and terrified him.

He wonders if Fischer knows this. He feels compelled to say… something. He’s not sure what.

“Fischer,” he begins, grasping for words. “About Steensgaard…”

“Don’t even start,” Fischer warns him. “You’re the brains. I’m the brawn and the looks. That’s how this works.”

La Cour narrows his eyes, taking a moment to process the statement.

“…why are you the looks as well?” he asks suspiciously.

“As if you need to even ask that question,” Fischer responds smugly. He reaches across the bed frame, prodding the other man in the temple. “Hello? Did the lack of oxygen damage that beautiful brain of yours? Hello?”

“Stop that,” La Cour says, huffing a laugh as he swats the other man’s hand away. He watches as Fischer settles back against the bed once more. “Why didn’t you say anything in Horsens?”

Fischer sighs in annoyance. “You too? I already said: it wasn’t pertinent to the case.”

“Perhaps not. But it doesn’t change the fact that they targeted and assaulted an officer,” La Cour reminds him.

“If I filed a report, they’d have been arrested and sent to prison, which is exactly what they wanted,” Fischer argues. “I wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction.”

“Fischer, you could have been seriously injured.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“But you could have been,” La Cour presses. He doesn’t give Fischer the opening to reply and instead carries on. “Next time, just tell us, would you? I hardy think that’s too much to ask.”

Fischer grumbles something in the affirmative, but doesn’t actually agree. La Cour knows it’s as best he’ll get. Once, some time ago, Fischer had told him that so long as they were on the same team, he should never say ‘thank you.’ His reasoning had been that whatever it was, he knew La Cour would do the same for him and therefore it rendered the whole thing quite pointless. Plus, wouldn’t it get rather tiresome if they went around thanking each other all the time?

“Fischer,” La Cour intones again.

Fischer turns his head towards him, eyelids drooping, but still managing to look rather annoyed all the same. “You’re the ones who insisted I stay here and rest but you seem determined to keep me from actually doing it.”

La Cour’s lips twitch in a faint smile. “I know. But about what happened. I just wanted to say I…”

There is a warning look to Fischer’s eyes now. La Cour ducks his head.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he says. “When I saw you lying there, admittedly my mind leapt to some… terrible conclusions.”

Fischer’s gaze is sleepy and perhaps a bit perplexed. Maybe he really does find La Cour as odd as La Cour is afraid he does. But after nearly twenty minutes of quiet－during which La Cour had been sure Fischer had fallen asleep－Fischer deigns him with a response.

“My teachers always used to say I was thick-headed. Turned out to be more right than they knew,” Fischer mumbles. “And anyway, you worry too much.”

La Cour laughs quietly at that, rubbing at the back of his own neck. “Maybe I do.”

“It’s not always a bad thing,” Fischer says, eyes still closed as he teeters on the precipice of sleep. “Sometimes I think I worry too little.”

La Cour thinks of how he’d staggered to his feet when Steensgaard had released him. He thinks of Fischer’s hand gripping his arm tightly and the way he’d leaned in－close, much closer than people usually got－to quietly, earnestly ask if he was alright. He thinks of Fischer’s hand on his back moments later; that firm, reassuring press between his shoulder blades as he caught his breath, that far-too-intimate slide as he rubbed in soothing half-circles as though to remind La Cour he was there with him.

“You worry where it matters,” La Cour says quietly.

But at that point, Fischer is already asleep. La Cour sighs and settles back into his chair, unwilling to examine the feelings this conversation had drawn out of him and somewhat thankful that Fischer hadn’t heard him. Perhaps one day, they’ll have a talk like this again.

For now, however, he’s content to keep watch.


End file.
